


Pandora's box wide open, yet hope remains

by Artherra



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (not graphic at all), Bad Puns, F/F, Fish, Kissing, MAG 160 Spoilers, Post-Post-Apocalypse, also: jonahlias magnuchard get fucked challenge because i hate him, hnnngnhngh author still hasn't learned how to Tag i am sorry, mentions of other characters but like...haha nope this is a dasira only space, mentions of the apocalypse and other bad times, past injury - amputation, this is basically fluff no plot, yes that is an important tag for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 01:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artherra/pseuds/Artherra
Summary: The Entities will never be gone, but they lost.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	Pandora's box wide open, yet hope remains

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic with romance in it and is also fueled by pure gay yearning (and filled with shameless self-projecting as well oops), so please be gentle hfjdbkg
> 
> Special thanks to Infini (Infini_noodle), who supported me through the entirety of this nonsense and also beta-ed it!! She's a really good person and writes AMAZING fics, so, please, go check her page and her tumblr (prentissed), I'm sure you'll find something you'll love!  
Other special thanks go to Nate who hasn't read it yet but who I've kinda gifted this fic to, because they were the person to fuel me with pure saturated gay spite and a want to write dasira, so, Nate, ily, here have Content

The sunlight coming through the window; from the clear, eye-less sky; colors the tea in her mug golden and reflects off of their glass decorations, creating small shards of rainbow on the walls.  
It’s a calm morning; people are going on about their lives, walking from place to place and acting _normal_. The kind of normal that can only be present after a failed apocalypse.

Daisy thinks she might get used to it, one day.

She _hopes_ she will and that hope, now, in those hollowed out parts of her where it hadn’t been present for ages, burns bright as she gets to wake up every day without the sound of static and whispering voices and screaming, even if her dreams tell a different story.

She wakes up to the sounds of birds instead; the apartment building they live in is surrounded by twisted trees created by the Spiral, originally meant to be horrifying, but now repurposed by nature and its endless lines of ivy and, most importantly, a family of ravens which return there every year.

She wakes up to their caws; and the barking of dogs and the muted voices of other people through the thin walls of the apartment, and she can’t shake the thought that it’s just a dream. Happy endings don’t just happen to people like her. This has to a particularly cruel spiral to insanity, or an idyllic dream that’ll break her once she wakes up only to look down and realize she still has crooked, black talons for nails.

But it’s not a dream and it’s not always happy. It’s not always easy, either. (Most times it’s not.)

But it’s all worth it.

The apartment is small, but they prefer it that way; it wasn’t easy to find a building with a functional elevator in the first months after the sky was blue again, but the reputation they built did wonders.

It’s lived-in, now, in a particularly chaotic way. She’d always took Basira to be a careful organizer, but she doesn’t do that so much anymore now that she no longer needs to; it was a coping mechanism for the stress and the danger of death and now that’s slowly going away. She still likes micromanaging; but there’s none of that rush, that _obsession_, in it.

If it means their apartment will be just a little messier, Daisy will gladly take it.

There’s something beautiful about the number of things that they have now; she has to rummage through multiple boxes every day to find what she needs. The two tables they have are always covered in papers and books, but nobody organizes them if they don’t need to, and slowly the papers become excerpts of original stories and tax forms and shopping lists instead of supernatural statements and research. The books aren’t about the paranormal either; they agreed that those books don’t belong in their space the same way their work isn’t to be dragged home, and piled them all up into several boxes that the television stands on.

The ones on the table are story books now; Basira has just recently discovered her love for classic detective stories after years of denying them for their “inaccuracies”, so Daisy can see at least three different books by Agatha Christie laying on top of a pile of old paperwork they _really_ should clean up someday.

They share the love for scientific literature as well, and sometimes wacky books that Daisy either found somewhere or bought for a pound without a second thought because she thought it was hilarious. They read the funny ones aloud to each other, taking turns when the one reading is either too tired or in a fit of laughter too powerful to continue and, yes, they’ve gotten passive-aggressive letters from their neighbors for losing it over _the Education of Hyman Kaplan_ at 2 am, but they’re not exactly to blame. That book was _ridiculous_, and wonderfully so.

Daisy had also caught Basira reading books aloud to their fish several times; and when she’d remark that angelfish really _can’t_ comprehend _the Hound of Baskerville_ and neither can cory nor ancistrus, Basira had just smiled with that defiant, but happy glint in her eyes and said: “You never know,” before pulling her into a kiss.

(They have a lot of those, now.)

She puts down the mug and the pen and takes out her phone, the one she got less than a month ago and is still getting used to, even if the internet has been back for nearly a full year now. She’d never used phones much, even before the apocalypse, but the new people at the Archives now sort of bugged her to get one and also to actually use it for something other than life-threatening situations, which rarely come, now.

The Archives have changed a lot; they’re not even called the same, nor are they in the same building (which, uh, mysteriously burned down a pathetic three weeks into the apocalypse) and the people have changed as well; but the nickname just...stuck. The Archives. It was to spite Jonah as well, posthumously; Jon doesn’t even work there.

There’s a lot of work to be done, analyzing everything that happened in the apocalypse and every fallout stemming from it and what to do _now_; and not all of it can be done from the small London house, which used to be a branch office of a bank three steps from bankruptcy before the apocalypse came and cut it short.

(It’s weird thinking of the Archives as a place where not everything has to meet an awful end. But they fought for it, after all.)

She knows that Basira is awake; she takes time with waking up now, especially since they work only three days of the week (Martin, as the Head of the Archives, was insistent on that and it wasn’t like they actually _wanted_ to argue) and don’t really need to rush the morning hours anymore.

In the apocalypse, a 7-hour sleep was an unreachable dream; you either survived with as little as possible or fell asleep and never awoke again; so being able to get a full night and wake up when the world is already full of light instead of into the dead of the night feels like pure hedonism.

But Daisy’s too restless for that and Basira understands; so she lets her slip out of bed early, but never before dawn, and stumbles out of it herself when breakfast’s already done; and then repays it with making being the one to make lunch, and in the little fights they have over who’ll clean the kitchen afterward.

(They make dinner together on most days, but Daisy thinks it’s because Basira doesn’t trust her with the oven after she’d learned that Daisy never preheats it.)

She scrolls through pages of book recommendations (from Jon) and deletes several tabs she has on rhymezone (because she’s only getting used to writing poetry, everybody has to start _somewhere_, dammit) before she stumbles onto the tab with really, _really_ bad puns she has bookmarked just for Basira and sends her one, knowing that she’ll look at it as soon as she notices the message.

It’s less than a minute before she hears booming laughter coming from the bedroom, and Daisy feels both fondness and pride.

(Basira smiles a lot more, now, and Daisy keeps finding more reasons for her to do so; and Basira does the same in return.)

It takes only a little while until Basira opens the bedroom door. She leans against the doorframe, sleep still evident from the lines of her face, but her eyes shine; she’s got an easy smile that had replaced her previous default frown.

There are many reasons to smile now, as well: Daisy never knew the blue of the sky could be enough to make people weep tears of joy, but the apocalypse was a rough time.

Everything is beautiful, in this new world.

The streets marked by human civilization, but clear of blood, rebuilt; all the colours the sky has (and Daisy can’t shake the thought that it had way less before); the flocks of birds walking around, searching for food in the little park next street over; the ivy and grass claiming structures of fear as a last act of spite against the enemy that lost, but will never disappear.

She’d started writing poetry because of that. She didn’t know what to do with it, with the memories of the world that was no more, of the world that was meant to end them and the one for which they found hard, so she brought them on paper; and eventually, random lines and strings of words became verses and stanzas and ballads sometimes full of wonder and sometimes terror. (Mostly both.)

When she’s told Basira, she gave her a thoughtful look and then said, with a certain level of wonder and amusement: “_Endless forms most beautiful_, aren’t they?” It was a reference, rather than a joke, but they’d laughed anyway; and when they stopped to take a breath, Daisy looked into her eyes and held her hand and added; as if it was the most certain thing in her life; “Yes. Yes, they are.”

(And it runs even deeper than that. They’d originally gotten a fish tank because neither of them was sure if they could handle a cat or a dog after everything that happened with the Hunt, and their apartment was much too small anyway. But neither of them regrets it, rather treat it as another wonderful, surprising thing about the universe at large; the world they have to learn to love and learn _about._

And Daisy knows Basira has caught her sitting with her face only a few inches from the side of the aquarium, following the angelfish and the bala sharks and all of the others with wide eyes, saying in an urgent tone “I love you. I love you so much and I hope you know that, oh my g-d,” but she never mentions it in anything else than light fun.

And rightfully so, as _she’s_ the one who’d taught the fish to eat from her hand; and who, whenever she does that, addresses them in a very serious tone: “You are a _baby_, but you can’t know that, so I am legally obligated to tell you how baby you are.”)

“Breakfast’s ready,” she says, now, in the present of a lazy Friday morning with a forecast that has heavy rain at 4 pm instead of bugs or fire or horizontal hurricanes; and Basira gives out nothing more than a very soft “mhm” of acknowledgment, before she reaches out and gestures at Daisy with an even softer “c’mere.”

_Ah._ She does so; grabs her crutches and gets while leaning against the table, checks for papers on the floor because she’s fallen like that way too many times, and walks up to Basira.

A long time ago, she’d said she’d give an arm and a leg to get away from the Hunt.

Turns out that a leg was enough.

(Daisy refused to walk in the first weeks after; hated how wobbly she was and how she couldn’t carry things anymore and how otherwise simple tasks suddenly turned into a mortifying ordeal, but Basira let her get away with exactly none.

“If you want a kiss,” she used to say, standing just on the other side of the kitchen; so close but so frustratingly far away, “you’re gonna have to walk to get it.” And Daisy would glare at her, but Basira only smiled in return, and then watched the whole time as Daisy swallowed her pride and stumbled towards her; never judging, but with careful concern in her eyes and Daisy knew that if she were to lose her balance, Basira would be there in a heartbeat.)

Basira hugs her when Daisy finally wobbles close enough (she’s steadier now, but it takes a lot of getting used to). She’s taller than her, and Daisy can’t hug her back because she’s busy holding herself up and their clothes are rumpled and Daisy’s hair gets in the way, so it should be awkward, but it’s not.

They melt into it as much as they can; Basira buries her face in Daisy’s shoulder and holds her close, prompting Daisy to ask: “Another nightmare?” because they have them every day, but they promised they’ll talk about it; that they won’t keep it a secret that would only stress them out and ruin their mood for the whole day.

Basira nods and tightens the embrace just a bit before she pulls away, but her hands never leave Daisy’s waist, and Daisy realizes that the smile on her face is from relief as well.

“It’s alright now,” she adds and gently cups Daisy’s face with her hands; her dark, hazel eyes alight with calm fondness and slowly fading remnants of fear and anguish meet Daisy’s; and then, she bends down to give her a kiss light as rain.

“I love you,” she says it every day; over work, over cups of coffee and bowls of broth and every night before she falls asleep and on most mornings, it’s the first thing she says, right after a tired, grumpy “G’morning,” because mornings never stopped being hard; but Daisy doubts it’ll ever feel less special. It’s more casual, now, maybe; but it’s a confession that still makes her heart flutter.

There are many replies to that, but only one for Daisy. “I love you too.”

She lays her weight onto the crutches and stands on her tiptoes, trying to kiss Basira back, but the movement is impulsive and unsteady, so she misses; surprises them both as her face smashes into Basira’s instead of the soft kiss she was going for.

She loses her footing a bit when they immediately separate and Basira’s quiet laugh morphs into an “oh!” as she catches her in a full-body hug, having to take a step forward to do so.

Daisy’s face is buried in Basira’s hoodie and the crutches are mashed in between them like the world’s most uncomfortable necessity and as Daisy gets her breath back from wherever it disappeared to, all she makes out is an “oops.”

Basira snorts; and then they both begin to laugh, because they can, because it’s funny; because there are monsters in this world but there’s also disastrously messing up a kiss in a well-meaning way and ending up smashing your nose into your girlfriend’s.

Basira helps her gain balance again and walks by her side past the table to the couch; there’s tea to drink, but neither of them mind it reheated in the microwave.

When they sit down, Daisy lets the crutches fall onto the ground, not minding the sound.

“You know,” Basira begins when they’re finally comfortable; holding hands, side to side, Daisy’s head on Basira’s shoulder; “I don’t know where the _fuck_ you found that joke, but it really helped, it did.”

It ends in another fit of giggling, and neither of them tries to make their laughter less weird and breathless and Basira, with tears in her eyes and genuinely baffled, comments, “How do people even come up with that?”

She interrupts herself with another fit of laughter, then; and covers her face with her hand as she fights the tears of it and _oh,_ Daisy’s never loved anything more than she loves _her._

Deeply and softly and without hesitation; stronger than spider web and more sincere than any statement the Eye’s ever gotten.

She loves her so much that she wouldn’t die for her, wouldn’t run until she can do so no more, wouldn’t _kill_ for her; because those are _easy._

She loves her so much she’ll fight to stay alive for her, stay in place and settle down; give up revenge and the chase and forget their enemies because the hunt can never, _never_ compare to the person she loves.

She’d fix the world for her, instead of destroying it.

Daisy had tried to sacrifice herself once before, and she’ll never do it again, monsters and fear Entities and apocalypses be damned.

(She’d read it a month after the world was remade for the second time; a quote from an unknown source; and it clicked. “We can sacrifice ourselves, but the problem is that nobody wants it from us.”)

Basira stops trying to stifle the laughter and throws her hand up into the air. “Why am I laughing? It’s not even that funny!”

“You’re welcome,” Daisy giggles and kisses her on the cheek. “Only the most terrible puns for you.”

She gets elbowed into her side for that; it doesn’t hurt if the way her stomach aches from how she hadn’t been able to properly take a breath in the last minute doesn’t count.

Basira’s eyes narrow with a certain kind of mischief and Daisy’s mind goes _Oh, no,_ except now, those two words can mean other things than fear.

“Wanna hear a _truly_ terrible joke?” Basira says as if it were a challenge.

“Always. Shoot.”

Basira looks at her; and, now, that’s _certainly_ mischief; the harmless fun of wanting to see the reaction once you’ll destroy somebody with a really, really awful punchline. “Why did the scarecrow win an award?”

She can’t help but frown in confusion at that; trying to detect the joke and failing, deciding to give up because if she got it, it wouldn’t be fun anyway. “Why?”

Basira’s mouth widens in one of the biggest, proudest grins Daisy has ever seen on her. “Because he was outstanding in his field.”

Daisy loses it, and then they both do.

And their tea goes cold and Daisy realizes with an “Oh, _shit,_” that it’s half-past eleven when they finally get to eat breakfast, so Basira heats the tea in the microwave and then fights for her right to make lunch because apparently, it’s _her_ fault that they were so late; and Daisy calls bullshit on that and in reply, Basira turns to her and with a _no_-bullshit expression lays it down to her with a “Would you rather be _right_, or _happy?_”

So Daisy sits on the couch next to the aquarium, watching the angelfish; which got born into the last few weeks of the apocalypse but _survived_, because living creatures are stubborn and hope never leaves; and sneaking glances at Basira rummaging through the kitchen, complaining to herself (“Where the _fuck_ did I put the garlic, I _know_ it was here—“) and she’s happy.

The Entities will never be gone, but they _lost._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written entirely because I saw a REALLY BAD AWFUL pun (the fire distinguisher one - it's purposefully left vague in the fic so that you could imagine your own) and was like "Oh that sounds absolutely like something Daisy would send to Basira and Basira would HATE it" and...3,1k words later? yeet


End file.
